


Thanatopsis

by kaigee



Series: contest entries 2019 - 2020 [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Brodinsons angst, Character Death, Crying, Flowers, Gen, Language of Flowers, No redemption, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Poor Loki (Marvel), Sad Ending, Sad Loki, So many flowers, a lot of my own headcanon, and hopes you'll read this despite the weird obscure title, but he kind of deserves to be sad, thor is kind of a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22345588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaigee/pseuds/kaigee
Summary: In less than an hour, Loki will be put to death for his crimes.He has a muzzle over his mouth, manacles on his wrists. There's a thick pane of glass separating him from Thor, keeping out all sound. They can't communicate, and that's exactly what the Allfather wanted.Thor will never exchange another word with his brother.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Series: contest entries 2019 - 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002735
Comments: 25
Kudos: 76





	Thanatopsis

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a contest on FF.net where you had to take a flower and its meaning and find away to incorporate that into a fic. I got the petunia, which means 'your presence soothes me'.
> 
> Thanks SO MUCH to [DocWordsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DocWordsmith) for being an awesome beta and helping so much with this fic!

_To him who in the love of Nature holds_

_Communion with her visible forms,_

_she speaks a various language_

* * *

Most of the cells in the death house are small and cramped, but one of them is spacious and airy, with large barred windows through which the setting sun shines its light across the ground in crimson stripes. Instead of dirty and damp, it is clean and polished. And rather than gloomy and dull, it is bright and full of flowers.

Red and yellow carnations, with petals bursting outward like fireworks. Daffodils, held in small vases, that span the perimeter of the room like watchful sentries. Everywhere vines grow on the walls as if spiders have spun dusky green webs, and the white catchfly, spilling out of clay pots that are hung from the ceiling, resemble snowflakes suspended in the winter sky. 

The death house smells like springtime.

Loki, who is standing in the center of the circle of bushes and blossoms, inclines his head in greeting as Thor enters. The muzzle over his mouth restricts him from speaking, and the manacles on his wrists keep him from gesturing to make his thoughts known. A thick sheet of glass between them prevents him from hearing anything Thor might say. 

There are bushes of periwinkle bursting in through the bars of his window, their leaves and petals scattered over the ground. Scarlet Indian Cress grow in the darkest corners of the room and seem to glow even from the shadows, as if they produce their own light. Loki is holding a cluster of honeysuckle in his pale hands. Weeks ago, Thor might have enjoyed the smell of them. Now he does not, for it has become more sickening than sweet, and makes his head ache.

Thor raises a hand in a half-hearted hello, and they settle with ease into their accustomed positions: Loki sitting cross-legged on the ground, Thor on a bench across from him on the other side of the glass. Neither of them look at each other, for they are both simply waiting until enough time has passed that Thor deems it fit to leave.

Usually it does not take long. Thor hates being here, and only comes because he feels he has to. But he can see the sweat on Loki’s brow, and how he fidgets there on the floor. He seems quite nervous. Perhaps today Thor should leave even earlier than he normally does. Loki will not want him to be here to witness his final weakness. If their roles were reversed and it was Thor who had an hour left to live, he would feel the same.

 _“You deserve this, Loki. It is your own actions that have led you here, and death is a small price to pay for all the grief you have brought upon others,”_ he would have liked to say, as well as some words of comfort if only he could think of them. But Loki can’t hear him, so Thor remains silent, and keeps his eyes on the flowers.

Marigolds, lilies, petunias. Nearly every type of flower in Asgard, he heard, has been brought here to Loki’s final cell. He does not deserve to die in a room that smells of spring, everyone agrees, but it is a long-held tradition to bring flowers to the bedside of dying royalty and Loki is, technically, still a prince.

Nevertheless, Thor cannot help but smile wryly at the hidden meaning that he knows these flowers hold. Whoever brought them was very purposeful in where they were placed. The blooms on Thor’s side have meanings such as _disdain_ , in the carnations, and _betrayed,_ in the catchfly—while the fiery orange bursts of milkweed on Loki’s side stand for _deceit,_ and the rhododendron bushes, unfurling crimson-tipped petals, mean _I am dangerous, beware._

 _“Do you remember,”_ Thor would say, if he could, _“How we used to speak to each other with flowers, when we were young? And weave them, sometimes, into our hair?”_

It was like a secret language they shared. Perhaps Loki would show up to dinner with a Bachelor’s Button tucked into his black curls. Thor would know that the flower meant _celibacy,_ and Loki would gesture subtly towards Hogun, who swore he had a girlfriend even though everyone knew he was bluffing, and Thor would laugh out loud.

Thor wishes he could remind Loki of those times, but they will never again get a chance to speak. The Allfather has been very clear about that. In one hour Loki will put to death, and Thor will not be allowed to attend his execution, lest Loki try speaking to him after they remove his muzzle for the ceremony. 

Thor will never exchange another word with his brother. 

Behind the glass, Loki taps his heel against the ground, bouncing his knee as he does so. He reaches up and begins picking at the side of the muzzle, his fingers shaky, his eyes fixed to the golden clock that the Allfather had set into the wall of his cell, with a second hand that ticks, ticks, ticks.

It really is some kind of cruelty, putting that clock on the wall. But Loki does deserve it. It has been many years since their childhood days, and this Loki is far removed from the one who used to weave flowers into his hair.

Loki’s hatred came on suddenly, like a summer storm. Thor does not understand why it came, but he is well aware of its devastating effects. Loki was so jealous of Thor that he brought the Frost Giants to Asgard to ruin his coronation. Once he realized he was one of them, Loki despised them so much that he tried to kill them all. And when he allowed himself to fall into the Bifrost, hoping to die…

Perhaps he hated himself.

And the Battle of New York, and hypnotizing Barton, and throwing Stark out the window, and trying to kill Thor again, and again, and again. Loki must hate everyone and everything in the entire universe to have done all of that.

And they have not spoken through flowers for hundreds of years.

Thor rubs his eyes and shifts position on the bench, wishing he could lie down and fall asleep. His armor clanks loudly as he moves. A piece of his cape is bunched up, trapped beneath his knee. Loki raises his eyes, watching as Thor tries to get comfortable on the bench, as he leans his head back against the wall, fighting to keep his eyes open—he is so tired that he feels he could fall asleep, right here.

Loki glances at the clock again. The sun glares off the manacles that bind his wrists as he scrapes his nails repeatedly against the muzzle. His eyes dart around the room, landing on Thor occasionally, only to skitter away.

Yes, he certainly seems nervous, which means it is Thor’s time to leave. Loki will not want him here, and Thor would not deny his brother his final wish.

Thor stands.

In an instant, Loki is on his feet as well. His eyes are red. Tears are caught in his eyelashes and pooled in the depression of his collarbone. Thor hadn’t noticed him crying, but the tears are there just the same. Loki shakes his head, and his hair flies with the motion, reminding Thor of the way it looked back when they were children, back when Loki had a head of wild dark curls.

Thor does not understand what he means. _No, don’t stand up? Don’t let them kill me? Don’t tell anyone you saw me crying?_

Thor stares at him blankly, unsure what to do.

Loki takes several steps backward, looking as if he’s going to trip over his own feet. His fists are pressed to his chest, pulling at the fabric of his prison clothes, and he is looking straight at Thor with desperation in his eyes. He has not wiped away his tears.

Thor takes a step towards the door. Loki has gone mad with hatred and fear, and he will not want Thor to see him like this.

Loki runs to the glass and pounds his bound fists against it.

The sound is enough to startle Thor, for it is the loudest sound he has heard since entering this cell. It takes the silence and shatters it, echoing in Thor’s mind even after it’s long gone.

Loki shakes his head again, almost frantically. But Thor still does not understand what he means, and Loki does not do anything further to make that clear.

Until he suddenly straightens, eyes gone wide, and holds up one finger, telling Thor to wait. Then he dashes off to a far corner of his cell, plucks a flower from a vase, and holds it up for Thor to see.

It is a petunia. The color of fresh snow, with freckled dots of crimson in the center, as if it is a glass into which someone has poured dark wine. A brilliant spot of color, lit up by the sunset that streams in through the window.

At first, Thor does not know what he means. Is this meant to be a joke? Some form of mockery or trick?

But since childhood, he has known the meanings of every flower in Asgard, and since childhood, he has known that the meaning of a petunia is _your presence soothes me._

“You want me to stay?” Thor asks, his voice coming rough and loud in the silence. Loki cannot hear him but perhaps he can read Thor’s lips or will just know what he means.

Loki nods.

So Thor takes a slow step backward and sinks back down onto the bench. After a moment, Loki sits down as well. He averts his eyes again—they are leaking tears freely now, and Thor pretends not to see.

 _“Loki,”_ he would say, if it meant Loki would hear. _“I thought you hated me. I thought you had forgotten the language.”_

Perhaps Thor was wrong, but more likely is that Loki’s fear of his approaching death has led him to seek any near, comforting presence, no matter whose. Thor understands this. He wants to die surrounded by loved ones. And if he was to be put to death, he would not want to approach the gallows alone.

 _“May your death be painless and swift, brother,”_ he thinks. _“May you be at peace, even though you do not deserve it.”_

They remain there for what seems like hours, waiting in a heavy silence that is only broken by the quiet ticking of the clock. Even though he does not want to, Thor finds himself always watching either the clock or Loki, so he closes his eyes to avoid looking at either of them.

Perhaps Loki is watching him. Perhaps he has picked up another flower, or perhaps he is crying. Thor does not know.

He is jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of the door opening, followed by approaching footsteps. He opens his eyes just in time to see two guards walk past him and enter Loki’s cell. Loki turns his face away and the petunia falls from his hands. He must have pulled the petals off, for they are strewn across the floor, bathed in red light like crimson blood.

Loki gets slowly to his feet when the guards gesture for him to rise, and begins shuffling after them, out of the cell, making his way past Thor and to the door. Once he walks through that door, he will be gone forever. 

Loki glances back and their eyes meet. The sadness and longing that Thor sees there is entirely unexpected, and he finds himself caught off guard. 

Now that Loki is out of his cell, he would be able to hear Thor if he spoke. There are a million things Thor should say to him, but his thoughts are so scattered that he cannot think of them, and besides, his mouth could not form the words. His throat feels closed; he cannot speak.

Loki follows them out. The door closes and they are gone.

Thor enters Loki’s cell, sitting where Loki had been, and gathers the petals up in his hands. His heart feels heavy and there is a lump in his throat. The silence is all-consuming and rings in his ears, but how much worse must it have been for Loki, with nothing to disrupt the ticking of the clock? That petunia was Loki’s last words to Thor, and Thor did not reply.

Something is rising up within him, something dark and painful. It reveals itself in a vivid flash of lightning cutting a jagged tear through the sky, and the roll of furious thunder that follows and rattles his bones.

Perhaps Loki will hear.

Or perhaps he is already gone.

From here, Thor has no chance of hearing the axe fall. No way of knowing when his brother’s life has ended. But he stays in that cell all through the night, until the sun begins to rise again, pale dawn light shining through the windows. Until the flowers raise their gaudy heads and fill the room with their overpowering scent, making him want to set the cell on fire and burn them to shriveled, blackened bits.

When morning comes, Thor knows, deep down, that Loki is long gone. And with the dawn light comes a heavy, horrible ache, set deep into his blood, his bones, his heart. Without his brother there to soothe it.

Thor will never feel soothed again.

* * *

_Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,_

_Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed_

_By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,_

_Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch_

_About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams._

Thanatopsis, William Cullent Bryant

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was really nerve-wracking to post. Like I said I wrote this for a contest but decided to post it here first in case there are any glaring mistakes that you can point out to me in the comments. (please do, if you see any!!) or just something you didn't like, that you thought I could have done better. I'm hoping I got the point across, and maybe made you a little sad. Hopefully. 
> 
> Also I'm still really not sure if I should have left the poem in lol. Tell me what you think?  
>   
> Here's list of all the other flowers I used and their meanings, if you're interested:  
>   
> Carnation, Red: My heart aches for you, deep love, admiration  
> Carnation, Yellow: You have disappointed me, rejection, disdain  
> Daffodil: regard, unrequited love, respect, The sun is bright when I am with you  
> White catchfly: betrayed  
> Indian Cress: resignation  
> Marigold: jealousy, despair, grief  
> Lily, Yellow: gaiety, falsehood, I’m walking on air  
> Lily, Orange: hatred  
> Orange (Milkweed): Deceit  
> Rhododendron: I am dangerous, Danger, Beware  
> Bachelor's Buttons: celibacy


End file.
